#ft. skye.

mirada se desvía de acompañante para mirar al hombre mencionado, una pequeña mueca formándose en su rostro al notarlo. “que perturbador ¿intentaste decirle que no te moleste? podríamos decirle que se aleje un rato si te incomoda mucho.”

He hated that she wasn't wrong. The narrative was already writing itself without them — golden boy quarterback dragged down by Hollywood's fallen princess. It didn't matter that the video was two people in love being stupidly reckless for each other. Nobody cared about that part. His pacing slowed momentarily, but his chest still heaved with the kind of adrenaline he usually only felt in the two-minute drill. "Don't twist this like I think it's easier for me," he bit out. "I'm not bulletproof just 'cause I wear a helmet on Sundays. My entire reputation is built on being the guy who keeps his shit together. Sponsors, teammates, front office; they don't see 'mistake,' they see liability." Beckham raked a hand through his hair, tugging at the ends before looking at her again. "But Jesus, you think I'd ever blame you for this? You think I wanted this, either?" His voice cracked just slightly, softer for a second before he forced it back down. "We were careful... At least I thought we were. Now... Fuck, now they're gonna tear us both apart." He stopped in front of Skyle, close enough to see the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, and his anger twisted into something more helpless. "I can't stand the thought of you carrying this alone. If they're gonna come for us, then fine, let 'em. But they're gonna have to take me down standing right next to you."